“Perhaps.” He stepped onto the Gate as the energy whipping through the design tugged at his robe. Silver glittered against black; the Gate’s design was duplicated on his clothes. “If Jonathan musters no other sorcery against me—and all those who might make a difference are accounted for—I need only to wait.” He came forward until he stood at the Gate’s center. “The Earth has her own means of dealing with unbearable pressure. She sheds it, redistributes it, expends it in small tremors. When she can do nothing else, she convulses—and continues to do so, until the pressure is gone. Even the gods cannot stop such an earthquake. Jonathan holds the land, but the pressure of my spell remains. How long, do you think, until that inescapable convulsion begins?”
Alanna felt cold and alone. “You’ll be just as dead,” she croaked.
His smile was frightening. “Indeed, I hope so.”
She gripped her sword, measuring her strength against his. “Why’d you tell me any of this?”
“Because, lady knight, you will share it with me. Did you think I would end it without you?” He chuckled. “I’ll tell you a secret. Years ago, when I was your age, just finding the limits of my power, I took up jewelry making. To each thing I made, I attached a bit of my Gift, to mark it as mine. Necklaces, rings—sword hilts. I even forged swords, to create a masterpiece of a weapon. Why you had to corrupt my design is beyond me.”
“It was warped.”
“You would think so.” He reached out, red fire eddying around his fingers. Voice soft, he said, “With silver and stone I made thee; With Gift and blood I bound thee; With my name I call thee!”
Lightning jumped, straining toward Roger. If she had still carried his original sword, instead of melding it with Lightning for a whole blade, she never could have kept hold of it. As it was, enough of the crystal blade and its hilt remained to wrench her arms as Alanna gripped it. Her cold eyes met his.
“It will come to me eventually,” he said. “And you will follow.”
All her muscles knotted: The scars on her palms broke and bled. She dug in her heels and held. What can I do? she thought, despairing. Can’t I make even one decision he hasn’t anticipated? What does he think I’ll do?
The cold part of herself that stood aloof from everything whispered, He expects you to fight. So—stop fighting.
With a teeth-baring effort, Alanna levered the sword back and let go. The effect was like loosing a bolt from a crossbow. Released from her pull, the sword shrieked as it flew, making her clap her hands over tortured ears. Roger didn’t break his calling spell. He didn’t even seem to know what she’d done until Lightning buried itself in his chest.
Roger grabbed the hilt. Amazingly, he laughed. He laughed until his dying lungs ran out of air. The silver design on his robes dripped and ran to the floor. His eyes closed, and he fell. Flames sprouted from the Gate into the stone, devouring the body of Roger of Conté.
Buri found her there. With the help of the King’s Own, she brought a fainting Alanna to the surface on a stretcher. Revived by the warmer air at the ground level, Alanna got Buri to help her walk to the Hall of Crowns. She was sickened by the bodies in evidence everywhere: Clearly the assault had been heavier than anyone had expected. Men of the Palace Guard admitted them to the Hall with deep bows, and Buri waited silently as Alanna took in the scene before her.
Between quake and uprising, the Hall was in ruins. The City Doors hung from their hinges; the stone risers had buckled and collapsed in sections. Pieces of roof and arches had fallen, dragging banners and garlands down to litter the floor in a mockery of a holiday. Survivors hunted in the rubble, freeing the trapped and pulling out the dead. These were placed on the main aisle for burial. Only later would the bodies in Tirragen or Eldorne colors be separated, to be burned on Traitor’s Hill.
The Provost limped over, brushing heavy silver hair back from a sweat-streaked face. “Not as bad as it looks,” he said in his terse way. “More of them dead than us. They weren’t expectin’ much opposition.” His ice-blue eyes caught Alanna’s and held them. “You take care of your end of things?”
She grinned wolfishly. He grinned back. Buri was interested to note more than a slight resemblance between them at that moment. “Indeed I did.”
The Provost put a gentle hand on her shoulder. “Good.” Pausing, he added, “Your … friend. Cooper. He did well today.” Favoring a wounded leg, he returned to help the searchers.
Eleni, looking worn and old, bandaged her bruised and wounded son. Seeing Alanna, George winked and blew her a kiss. When his mother scolded him for moving, he silenced her with a hug. Thayet, seeing the direction of his look, waved tiredly. She sat with her head on a noblewoman’s shoulder, a shattered sword on her lap. Her new friend was as exhausted and battered as she.
Rispah fussed over Coram nearby. She also kept a sharp eye on Delia, who was bound and gagged with strips of what looked like someone’s petticoat. Noting Alanna’s look, Rispah grinned. “My lady here thought she’d knife his Majesty while the fightin’ was thickest and the menfolk all occupied,” she explained. “She didn’t know I figured her game.”
Gary, sporting bandages of his own, kissedAlanna swiftly. “Father had a heart attack,” he said quietly. “He’ll be all right, thanks to Duke Baird. They’re at the infirmary now—Baird and Father and Myles. Myles fought two of them, single-handed.” Gary smiled tiredly. “They were huge. I don’t know what possessed him. But he killed one, and George finished the other.”
“As a mercy to the poor man,” George explained as he joined them. “After Myles hurt him so.” He cupped Alanna’s face, his grave hazel eyes searching out her own. He nodded, liking what he saw, and kissed her gently. “I’d watch out for Myles—he’s that fierce when he’s angry. Didn’t even want to go and get his wounds stitched. Lucky Duke Baird insisted. We can’t have Myles terrorizin’ the prisoners.” Softly he added, “He’s fine, lass.”
“The ladies saved us all,” Gary went on. He indicated Thayet, Eleni, Buri, and Rispah. “They kept the archers from killing his Majesty. We’re proud of them—of you.” He glanced at Alanna and looked away again, his eyes troubled. “Jon—the king—told us what you did, in the catacombs. He saw it all, somehow.”
Alanna faced the altar. Jonathan sat at its base, leaning against the stone. His face was drawn. She was shocked to see white threads in his hair where none had been that morning. The Jewel was in his lap. He stirred; Geoffrey of Meron gave him a cup of water. The altar itself had been cleared to make room for the body of Liam Ironarm.
Did I know? she asked herself. Did I suspect? There was no way to tell. She climbed the altar steps to look at the Dragon alone.
Eight arrows were piled beside him; his knuckles and wounds were neatly bandaged. Her eyes burned, but she was cried out. Helplessly she plucked at his sleeve, wishing she could bring him back. Crying would have helped.
“He and George saved my life—they saved us all.” Jonathan dragged himself up to lean on the altar. “You’d just gotten to Roger when Tirragen soldiers attacked me in force. Myles was down by then, Duke Baird, Raoul, Duke Gareth. They’re all right. I guess Raoul will have a limp to show for it. Coram and Gary were drawn away. I was—helpless.” He grimaced.
“You did more than enough.” Her broken voice was barely audible.
“But I couldn’t do anything else. George and Liam kept me from being … interrupted.” Alanna shuddered, knowing the land would have shaken itself to pieces if Jon’s concentration had broken. “Two archers got clear. Liam took the arrows meant for me. He didn’t even falter, until the last.” Jonathan’s eyes met hers. “It isn’t much consolation, I know, but—they’ll sing about the Dragon’s last fight for centuries.” After a moment he added, “I’m sorry.”